


The Importance of Consultation

by Momerath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Momerath/pseuds/Momerath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes liked to say that he invented the profession of consulting detective. That wasn't true. Detective Inspector Lestrade had invented it for him. Spoilers for The Great Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Importance of Consultation

**The Importance of Consultation**

Post The Great Game.

My first Sherlock fanfic. Because I just had the DVDs bought for me. And I'm in love with Lestrade. I'm REALLY new to the fandom (like, this week) so not sure it does it justice, but thought I'd put it up anyway. Please be gentle.

Nothing belongs to me, obviously.

Friendship. You'd need VERY strong slash goggles on to see anything else, but if you have them, feel free to wear them.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock Holmes liked to say that he invented the profession of consulting detective.

That wasn't true.

Detective Inspector Lestrade had invented it, one rainy afternoon on a building site in Battersea, when Donovan's incessant stream of barely-concealed bitter insecurity resulted in her repeated question: "what is that freakshow doing here?"

"He's here as a consultant," Lestrade had snapped, ankle deep in mud and cold to the bone. Consultant was one of those words that meant everything and nothing. Donovan was of a generation that liked words like 'consultant'. It was words like that, Lestrade believed, that might mean he could get away with having a junkie at a crime scene.

"A consultant _what_?" whined Donovan.

"Detective," he'd said, almost at random. "What do you think? What are we doing here? We're detecting. _He's_ a consulting detective."

And Sherlock had looked up, eyes shining. He liked that, Lestrade knew. He liked the idea of a consulting detective. He said so later that day, back at the station. "We're still not paying you," Lestrade informed him, hastily. And then as Sherlock left, he realised the new leverage he had, and he added, "consulting detectives shouldn't be high, Sherlock."

"I'm not high."

"No, not at the moment. But I mean _ever_."

"And DI's shouldn't drink," replied Sherlock. The sticks they used to beat each other with. That's what it used to be like.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

DI Lestrade is on his way home. Three hours of form-filling, all these crimes solved require hefty paperwork, especially when one is trying to be circumspect about how exactly they were solved. Lestrade would actually prefer to assign credit to where credit is due, if only to cut down on the brainpower required for filling out the forms, but Sherlock is insistent. It is part of The Deal. Sherlock doesn't want any credit. Well, not from a faceless multitude, anyway. Sherlock adores face-to-face credit, he loves nothing more than Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade and John gaping in amazement and disbelief at his brilliance. But from the higher ups or the press, he isn't interested. And respect from criminals, too. He's far more interested in a murderer being impressed by him than the Commissioner of the Met. Just last week he'd airily informed a shackled and depressed until-recently-at-large jewel thief that he was merely unlucky. "It was unfortunate for you," he'd said, "that the world's only consulting detective was on your trail."

And Lestrade had desperately wanted to say, "but that doesn't _mean_ anything! I just invented it to shut Donovan up and to shut you up too, for that matter! It doesn't make you a superhero!"

But, he thinks, turning off the lights, maybe he needs to accept that's his role in these weird team. He's there to smooth Sherlock's way and make his crime-busting possible and effective in a twenty-first century judicial system. Even if it's totally unappreciated by the man in question.

Lestrade's pushing open the door from the police station when he sees her at the reception. The receptionist is staring at her suspiciously and contemptuously. He's tired, but he doesn't think for a second before calling out to her, it's automatic.

"Maisie?"

The girl turns around. She's filthy, and wet from the rain, and very, very scared. "They said you'd gone home," she said, "and I –"

"Well, I'm here," he glances at her more closely, subtly checking her out. Sober. Good. He goes over to her, subtly checking her out. Sober. Good. "What's up, Maisie?"

Sherlock calls them the Homeless Network. But they are more than that. They're his former colleagues. Maisie was in the squat where Lestrade found Sherlock five years ago. Lestrade is kind to Maisie. She's never made it out from the mess they were all in all those years ago, although she's probably come to closest. He can feel his passing colleagues' eyes lighting on them as they pass. 'Another of Lestrade's waifs and strays', they're thinking. He isn't quite sure how, but they have become his as well as Sherlock's. He had to pull strings just last week to get that damn kid with the spray can off charges _again._ But he likes being the policeman they know they can come to.

"Must be pretty bad to have you in a police station," he says, taking her arm, and manages not to flinch from the contact with her dirty coat while guiding her to the door. "You're a long way from Waterloo Bridge," he observes, giving her time to calm down. She breathes easier outside. "Come on, Maisie," he coaxes. "Is it that dealer again? Do you need –"

"It's Sherlock. He'd kill me if he knew I came here. But he's in major trouble."

"Coke?" asks Lestrade, sharply. It's always in the background. Is Sherlock doing lines again? Am I drinking again? It's a constant check. From always thinking about doing it, you always think about not doing it.

"No, no, no. He asked me earlier, to find that bloke, the tall one, the Golem," the words spill out, "and then this other guy comes to see me, to ask about Sherlock, and I tell him to get lost – it wasn't Mycroft," she adds, before Lestrade can ask. "I already report to him. I split it with Sherlock," she adds, defensively, seeing Lestrade's expression. "Anyway, I tell this guy to sod off and then he says that Sherlock Holmes will die tonight in an explosion at a swimming pool. He says it's a prophecy. That it can't be changed."

"And?" says Lestrade, as lightly as possible.

"And so I tried to get him, Sherlock I mean, but I couldn't, so I went to Steve's internet cafe, he lets me on free, and on Sherlock's website –" She hands him a creased piece of paper. _The Pool. Midnight_.

It's a cold night anyway, with the promise of more rain like icicles in the air. But Lestrade is suddenly frozen right through. He rocks back on his heels. Sherlock's arranged to meet Moriarty. He's _arranged to meet Moriarty_. The stupid bastard. That _stupid_ bastard. After all these years, he _still doesn't know when he needs help._

"But I don't know which pool!" wails Maisie, even as Lestrade is on his feet and running away from her.

He gets there just in time to watch the fireball.

And he thinks, this is why we consult with each other, you bloody idiot. This is why there's two of us.

And then, not for the first time, DI Lestrade puts himself into harm's way in order to get Sherlock Holmes out of it.


End file.
